#poly!stonathan

You’re talking. Animatedly. Steve’s heart rate spikes. He starts moving unthinkingly.

Jonathan reaches out, not to stop him, but to slow him down. Two fingers hook into the belt loop of his jeans.

“Give it a second,” Jonathan says. “She’s just talking.”

“She’s always just talking,” Steve mutters, eyes locked on you like he might be able to telepathically summon you back through sheer panic.

From across the shop, you make a vague circular motion with your hands, as if describing the size of something important. The man nods, deeply invested. You tilt your head, listening, smiling faintly.

Steve’s stomach drops. “Why does he look like that?”

Jonathan considers. “Like what?”

“Like he owns a van,” Steve says flatly.

Jonathan hums. “You own a van.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue and then shuts it again because you laugh, a light, distracted sound, and the man laughs too. The interaction doesn’t look tense nor threatening. Steve hates that most of all. Especially because it's not him making you laugh.

A minute later, you drift back like nothing happened, slotting neatly into place between them.

“Oh hey,” you say, casually. “He wanted to know if the lake ever freezes solid. I told him not really, but that people underestimate hypothermia.”

Steve stares at you. Jonathan blinks. “Did he say why he was asking?”

You shrug. The stack of necklaces sparkle over your bare neck. You pull together your lips in a line, sticky with a pink gloss. “Something about statistics. Or ghosts.”

Steve drags a hand down his face. Puts his hands on his hips like a disgruntled father. “Okay. New rule.”

“No,” Jonathan and you say, perfectly in sync.

Steve frowns and looks between the two of you exasperatedly, his brows pulled together tightly. “You don’t even know the rule yet.”

“You always announce rules right before panicking,” Jonathan says and makes a good point. The two of you look at each other and roll your eyes.

You nod thoughtfully. “And they’re usually very situational.”

Steve points at you and you think he wants to stomp his foot. You wouldn't put it past him, he has a tendancy to act a little bit like a child sometimes. “Don’t let her talk to strangers.”

There’s a pause.

You tilt your head and smile, though it's more of a frown.“I don’t think that’s enforceable.”

Jonathan raises an eyebrow and scoffs a little bit. You trust him to not fall for Steve's stupid ideas. A team. “Also, define ‘stranger.’”

Steve gestures vaguely toward the front of the shop with his head and doesn't uncross his arms. “That guy.”

“He's not a stranger anymore,” you say. “We spoke.”

“That’s—” Steve cuts himself off, takes a breath. “Okay. Fine. Revised. Don’t let her talk to sketchy strangers.”

“Subjective.” Jonathan hums again. “And she’s not stupid.”

You frown, considering. “He wasn’t sketchy. He was just…intense.”

Steve makes a noise like he’s being personally wronged by the universe. You take Jonathan by the arm and drag him along. You're not mad at him, he doesn't see you as a casualty. Though the rule, if it can even be called that, lasts exactly twelve minutes.

You’re at the diner down the street, sliding into a cracked vinyl booth. Steve complains immediately about the coffee. Too weak, somehow burnt and sour. Jonathan scans the menu like the three of you don't come here weekly.

“There’s a woman crying, going into the bathroom,” you say suddenly instead of sitting down with the boys. “Be right back.”

Steve reaches for your wrist out of instinct, and stops himself halfway. “Can't you stay here? What do you want to eat?”

Jonathan doesn’t look up. “Pancakes,” he guesses.

Steve watches you disappear down the hallway, jaw tight. He decides to stare at the menu too and decide what he wants himself. Maybe pancakes as well.

Jonathan sips his coffee. “You know she’s good at this.”

Steve exhales sharply. “Good at what.”

“People,” Jonathan says like it's kinda obvious. “In her own way.”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it, then taps his fingers against the table instead. Restless. Waiting. Five minutes stretch longer than they should.

Steve is halfway out of the booth, after arguing with Jonathan about it, when you return, holding a napkin and smiling faintly.

“She’s okay,” you say and throw yourself down into the booth. You place your hand onto Steve's thigh, red nail polish against the blue of his denim. “She just needed someone to listen, and a dollar. I gave her the dollar.”

Steve squints and looks down at your hand. “You just carry emergency money for strangers?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” you blink. “Did you order me pancakes?”

Jonathan snorts into his cup and decides to call the server over.

Steve stares at the table. “I’m losing control of my environment.”

By the third interaction of the day, Steve stops pretending he’s relaxed. The pretense is thin and fraying. Jonathan has given up entirely on worrying for the both of you. He leans on the assumption that you’ve got this covered, even if Steve’s jaw is tight and his stance rigid.

It’s the gas station. The air smells like fuel and hot pavement. Jonathan’s inside paying. Steve leans against the car, arms crossed, watching you pace loosely nearby, kicking stones with your beat up converse. Your movements are casual, almost bored, but your awareness hums under the surface.

A man at the next pump clears his throat. Steve straightens so quickly it’s like someone flipped a switch. The man says something to you, and your attention shifts immediately, turning your body toward him, polite but alert.

Steve pushes off the car. “God.” His tone is sharp, automatic, protective.

Jonathan appears at the door just then, a bag of snacks in hand. “What’s happening?” he asks, eyebrows raised, sensing the tension.

“She’s happening,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. A statement of fact, not opinion. He feels it keenly, the rhythm of the day, the way the three of you orbit each other. Today, it’s all in motion.

Jonathan glances just in time to see you nod seriously, lips moving in conversation. Whatever you said, it makes the man pause mid-word. A small, private smile spreads across his face as he shakes his head in quiet amusement.

“Huh,” the man murmurs, blinking once.

Steve is already halfway across the lot, boots crunching on gravel. “Hey—”

“It’s fine,” you call, dismissing him with a single, graceful wave. “He just wanted to know if the road curves after mile marker six. He’s got a horse in that trailer.”

Steve freezes, hand in mid-air. “Does it?”

“Yes,” you and Jonathan say in perfect unison, the sound of confirmation ringing clear in the sunbaked lot.

The man nods, thanks you, and leaves.

Steve stands there, dumbstruck, blinking at the empty space where the encounter just happened. Jonathan watches him, quiet but sharp-eyed. “He needed help.”

Steve exhales, a rush of frustration and admiration tangled together. “I know. I just,” He gestures helplessly at you. “You don’t screen people.”

You pause and think. “I do. Just not consciously.”

Jonathan tilts his head. “Pattern recognition.”

Steve squints, unimpressed. “You’re not helping.”

Later, the humor has thinned, leaving a quieter, more persistent kind of worry. You’re perched on the hood of the car, legs swinging freely, watching clouds drift in shapes only you recognize. Jonathan leans casually nearby, camera dangling from one hand. Steve lingers a few steps back, tense but patient.

“I trust you,” Steve says finally, careful, deliberate, as if weighing every word before letting it go. “I do. I just worry because you don’t always see what I see.”

You study him for a long moment, quiet, reflective. Your gaze softens, not defensive, just thoughtful, taking him in. The tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl slightly at his sides, the stubborn pride mixed with worry, it’s all visible if you look closely enough.

“I see different things,” you reply, soft, matter-of-fact. Your voice carries no judgment, just a simple statement of truth.

Jonathan glances between the two of you, his expression open curiosity. His camera forgotten for a moment.

“I leave when it feels wrong,” you add, letting your words hang in the air. “I just don’t announce it.”

Steve blinks, surprised. His chest rises and falls as he processes the admission. “You do?” His voice is quieter now.

“Yes,” you say simply, a calm, grounding certainty to your tone, as if that alone should settle any lingering doubt.

Jonathan smiles faintly, the corner of his lips tilting in recognition. “She’s actually very good at disengaging,” he observes. “She just engages first.”

Steve lets out a low laugh despite himself, a sound half exasperated, half impressed. “That’s the worst possible order.”

You grin, the corners of your mouth tilting up with quiet pride. “It works.”

Steve nods slowly, letting it sink in. “Okay. No rule.” His voice is lighter now, tinged with relief, though still cautious.

Jonathan waits a beat, amusement flickering in his eyes like he’s silently enjoying the quiet negotiation unfolding.

Steve exhales sharply, a little too theatrically, and throws his hands up in mock surrender. “New plan. You talk, we hover.”

You consider it carefully, tilting your head as your eyes follow the clouds above. “Reasonable.”

Jonathan nods, clearly satisfied. “That was already happening.”

Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face in exaggerated frustration, but there’s no real anger in it.

You hop down from the hood, letting your feet touch the sun-warmed asphalt. “You don’t have to worry so loudly,” you say to Steve. “We hear you anyway.”

Steve squeezes your hand, a quiet acknowledgment, and you see the tension in his chest ease fractionally. “Yeah. I know.”